Reality Is The Completion Of Experience.

Dogma And Shrinking From The External World Are At One Limit Of The Range Of Belief. At The Other Are Science And Poetry And, Indeed, Reality.

I Lived In The First Century Of World Wars. Most Mornings I Would Be More Or Less Insane.

I Think There Is A Choice Possible To Us At Any Moment, As Long As We Live. But There Is No Sacrifice. There Is A Choice, And The Rest Falls Away. Second Choice Does Not Exist. Beware Of Those Who Talk About Sacrifice.

Slowly I Would Get To Pen And Paper, Make My Poems For Others Unseen And Unborn. In The Day I Would Be Reminded Of Those Men And Women, Brave, Setting Up Signals Across Vast Distances, Considering A Nameless Way Of Living, Of Almost Unimagined Values.

The Universe Is Made Of Stories, Not Of Atoms.